imagine me and you (i do)
by aquaXtreme
Summary: because it's not really a case of her bleeding into his reality but rather him pulling her back. Irene/Sherlock (Spoilers for TS03)


**Bonjour to all my fellow Sherlockians (it's been far too long since I've said that :P)**

**Can I just start out by saying, holy crap, this season is amazing! So much better than the other two (The Sign of Three almost rivals my love for A Scandal in Belgravia :)). Even without The Vatican Cameo (as everyone seems to be referring to her as), the sheer cleverness of that ep was beautiful...except the end. That just broke my heart clean in two.**

**So, per usual, instead of revising for my oh-so important mock exams next week, I've decided to write a fic. Which, funnily enough (well, I find it funny, Mum doesn't seem to share the same sentiment), if I had only spent as much time on revision as I did on writing this...well, exams would be a freaking breeze.**

**But yes, I have expressed my love over the show, my pure laziness in real life, time for the actual story :)**

**I hope you all enjoy it :D**

* * *

He's in the middle of figuring out the exact details of a case _(standard murder- per usual) _when he first spots her, materialising in the corner of his eye out of nowhere.

He's left staring, the sheer surprise catching him off guard whilst she smirks back at him in greeting.

"Well. This is new."

He shuts down his mind palace almost immediately, ignoring John's concern when he leaps to his feet. Letting out a quick breath, he runs his hand through his curls in frustration, already pacing the floor as he tries to figure out what the_ hell_ just happened.

How did _she_ manage to get in_ there_?

He recalls no memory of cataloging her in his mind palace and yet…there she was. In the nude, none the less.

_(she must have made a bigger first impression than he thought)_

* * *

"You ought to be more hospitable," she grins, eyebrows raised as she positions herself artfully before proceeding to sit on the stool he provided. "Last time we met, you left me in the lurch."

"Don't make yourself too comfortable, this won't be a long visit," he states, fingers steepled underneath his chin as he narrows his eyes in her direction.

"Oh. You're doing your sexy detective face; the one I absolutely_ adore_."

"How?" he snaps,

"How what?"

"How did you manage to get inside here when I certainly don't remember putting you in?"

She chuckles before leaning forward and resting her chin on her palm.

"Your mind conceived me, my dear. Really, I know about as much as you."

"So I supposedly imagined you- naked, of all things- in my brain and here you are? Is that it?"

"Kinky, isn't it?"

He stares incredulously at her _(no, not her, at his mind's recollection of her)_ as she shrugs back at him lips pursed in mock thought. Sighing, he reaches behind her and reluctantly grabs his robe, tossing it over to her.

"If you are going to be a permanent resident in my mind, I'd prefer it if you wore clothes."

She raises an eyebrow but shrugs his robe on nonetheless, wrapping it tightly around her waist before settling back down.

"And, secondly," he hisses, "you do not interfere with my cases or get in my way at all. Understand?"

"Or, what?" She smirks suggestively. "Are you going to _punish_ me?"

Growling, his mind palace dissolves around him as he becomes more aware of his reality, the sound of her ringing laughter echoing in his ears.

Of course, he should have known better than to simply rely on her word.

* * *

Soon enough, his image of Irene Adler starts bleeding into his daily life.

It starts off small at first – a faint whisper as he wakes up; the ghost of her breath on the back of his neck; her laughter haunting the edges of his auditory senses. He simply puts it down to boredom- with nothing interesting to occupy his mind, of course he's going to start resorting to _her_ for entertainment.

But it's when he catches a reflection of her in the mirror one day that he begins to start questioning his sanity.

* * *

"You need to stop!" He snaps at her once, rounding on her unimpressed figure, his eyes narrowed and fists clenched in barely contained fury.

"I'm a part of you, Darling. Just tell me to stop and I'll go away."

He freezes for a moment, a barely imperceptible second, before storming up to her, his jaw clenched and his face murderous. Leaning down until they're both eye to eye, he pauses, eyes flickering with stormy hesitation before hardening with resolution.

"Stop this now. Just. Stop."

She cocks her head and something flashes through her eyes_ (disappointment? disapproval? he can't quite make it out) _before she curtly nods once and disappears.

He's left breathing hard, a disturbing coil of anger tightening within him and without even a goodbye.

He wonders if maybe this is for the best.

* * *

He wakes up the next morning and almost immediately detects that noticeable hint of her perfume lingering in the air. He hears her soft chuckle and turns slightly to see her leaning against the wall, a smirk painted triumphantly onto those sinful lips.

"Honestly," she purrs, "it's like you didn't even try."

* * *

He's in the process of typing up an indignant comment in response to John's latest blog entry _(really! he likes to think that his lack of sensitivity has improved somewhat in the past few years)_ when she pops out of nowhere and immediately settles herself down on his lap. He narrows his eyes, eyeing her cheeky smile, before deciding to ignore her presence and focus back on his current task at hand.

"Oh, don't be such a spoilsport, Mr Holmes. I've been so very bored lately."

"I'm busy."

She raises an eyebrow and tuts disapprovingly.

"Tetchy too, by the sound of it. Do yourself a favour, Detective. Talking to a shadow of Irene Adler will only drive you mad."

"So?"

"So?" She leans forward, her cheek brushing against his as she cleverly positions her lips just a hair's breadth away from his right ear. "It's simple, isn't it?" She asks, threading her hands gently through his ruffled hair before wrapping a stray curl distractedly around her index finger.

"Find me."

* * *

Days meld into weeks and weeks meld into months and not one of them goes by when he's not alerted to her presence.

Alarmingly, he grows used to her popping in and out whenever she likes. With John now an engaged man, he finds that he doesn't _exactly _detest the extra company she provides nor does he_ exactly_ loathe the witty intellect she brings with her to amuse him with.

All in all, it becomes part of an _(almost disturbing)_ routine.

It's not too long before he comes to the conclusion that, no, it's not _her_ that's slipping through into his reality but rather a case of_ him_ pulling her back.

He's renowned for his deductive powers and reasoning, gaining unwanted international fame for his _(admittedly) _superior intelligence. He's used it to solve murders, track down disappearances, recover hostages and soothe _(for lack of a better word)_ anxious hearts.

Yet, try as he might, he's always failed at deducing elements about_ himself_.

So, it's really no surprise when he can't come up with a reason as to_ why_ she's there.

* * *

"You can't keep doing this, Darling," she mumbles, watching him with an unwavering gaze as he leans against the window frame, stubbornly ignoring her presence. "It's unhealthy- hell, some would say you're displaying symptoms of Schizophrenia. You're letting that sexy brain of yours go to waste."

When his resolute silence becomes clear to her, he hears her sigh before she calmly approaches him from behind, her footsteps rhythmic and steady as he stands, silhouetted in the shadows with his face hidden petulantly from her sight. Even after all this time, he still seizes up at her touch, muscles tensing up instinctively as she encircles her arms around him before relaxing in her close proximity. Closing his eyes, he lets out a low hum as she leans into him, her weight familiar against his as they run the same old dance steps between them that have become somewhat of a routine, far too practiced for either of their likings. As he traces his fingers gently over hers, he can almost see the smirk that would doubtlessly be emerging onto her lips by now.

"'Waste' isn't exactly what I would call it," he scoffs in derision but, from the sound of her light laughter, he knows she can hear the slight undertones of amusement that run throughout his voice.

"Then why are you here with me," she whispers, leaning up onto her tiptoes, "when you could be solving another one of your fantastic mysteries with dear Doctor Watson?"

"Seeing as you are a manifestation of my mental being," he mutters, brushing his thumb gently against her knuckles, "why don't you tell me?"

"Manifestation?" She laughs. "Ouch, that hurt, Mr Holmes. You sure know how to charm a girl."

She detangles herself from him and he's at a loss as to why. He turns around and studies her- at least, what his memories have made up of her. The Irene Adler standing in front of him, he knows, is nothing more than a shade- a mere shadow compared to the real woman. And yet, he finds himself in the company of his mind's copy of her far too often to be considered a coincidence by now- nor is it strange. He's beginning to realise that some part of him rather enjoys her presence.

Now he just needs to work out whether 'this part' is in the majority or minority.

"Sentiment," she answers and he's snapped back into focus at the sound of her hollow voice which, he notices, lacks the verve it usually holds. She's dropped her smile, her eyebrows furrowing ever so slightly as she stares directly at him, never once faltering in their eye contact. "In regards to your motivation, however much you deny it, I'd say it's a damn good guess."

* * *

"John's got Mary and you've got a lingering memory of a woman- sorry, _The_ Woman- for company. What does that tell us about you, Mr Holmes?"

"Possible signs of a psychological breakdown."

"I was thinking something more along the lines of…well, fondness. Or, if you want to be crude,_ love_."

He snorts.

"Sentiment is-"

"Weakness, yes, I'm aware. But, just think. If I'm a…what was that word you used to so charmingly describe me again? Right, a manifestation. If I'm a manifestation of your sexy brain, then, really, I'm only voicing your own thoughts."

She grins.

"So, tell me, Darling, where does that leave _us_?"

* * *

He's walking away from the wedding- _John's_ wedding- when he looks up to find her standing in front of him, the barest of smiles on lips that _(surprisingly)_ lack their usual scarlet paint.

"You left."

Pressing his nails firmly into the palms of his hands, both hidden within the warmth of his coat pockets, he strides past her, progressively getting sick of this silly game his mind has made up.

_She_ is not real. Irene is in hiding. Irene is_ dead_._ She_ is not _her_.

"You didn't even dance."

"I wasn't in the mood."

She lets out a short bark of laughter, one that sounds entirely foreign coming from her lips, as she follows him from behind, arms crossed over her chest whilst she stares at his retreating back.

"Well, that just gave a whole new meaning to lying to yourself. Really, now, Mr Holmes,_ I_ would have gladly danced with you. In a heartbeat, in fact."

That stops him.

They're left standing in silence, shrouded within the shadows, as the merriment of the celebration behind them rings in their ears. As the final notes of a song draw to a close, followed by a round of chants for a 'kiss' from the happy couple, Sherlock turns around, his mouth inexplicably dry as he studies the woman in front of him.

She initiates it.

Closing the distance between them, she gently takes a hold of his left hand, positioning it firmly on her waist while she grasps his other hand securely in hers. Glancing up at him, she laughs at his incredulous expression.

"Don't look so bewildered, Darling! You do know how to dance, right? Because I think that's a waltz they're beginning to play back at the wedding."

Nodding at him to start, the corners of her lips quirked into an unmistakable grin, he frowns hesitantly yet his feet start moving instinctively, carrying out the all too familiar motions, as he silently leads her through the steps. Soon enough, they've fallen into the comfortable rhythm of the distant melody, swaying in the darkness as the breeze drifts gently past them.

He's lost all sense of time, his reason and rationale failing him, as he stands with her wrapped in his arms, dancing to a tune that now solely exists in their little universe. And yet, he realises that he doesn't seem to mind the physical intimacy between them nor the clear sentiment behind this moment. In fact, it occurs to him that this feels almost natural.

He snaps back into focus when she begins to stir in his arms before pulling away from him completely, regret tinging the corners of her smile.

"I've got to go."

"You could stay."

The words tumble out of his mouth before he can even comprehend them; all he's aware of in that precise moment is that all too painful knot of_ something_ far too _foreign_ and _uncertain_ beginning to coil up tightly inside him.

She smiles sadly, her right index finger caressing his cheekbone as he stares down at her intently, eyes flitting desperately over her every feature. He grasps her wrists in his hands, fingers finding their age-old spot, before travelling slowly up her arms, finally resting on the back of her neck.

"We both know, my love, that I'm only a figment of your imagination. I'm not really here."

He pulls her closer and she complies, a soft smile lingering over her lips before she reaches up to clasp his hands in hers.

"And, for that, I am truly sorry."

Closing his eyes tightly, he feels her lips brush against his cheek, fingers dancing lightly through his curls before opening them once more. The warmth of her presence is gone, along with the faint traces of her perfume and the familiar feel of her body pressed against his- all gone, all part of his dreamt up delusions.

Taking one deep breath, Sherlock Holmes continues down the lonely concrete road.

**...I couldn't help it. **

**(ALSO, can we just address the fact that, a week ago, we were waiting for Series 3 and now, not even a week later, we're back to waiting. BUT, Moffat and Gatiss have, apparently planned out both Series 4 and 5 which should be interesting :))**

**(His Last Vow is gonna kill me this Sunday. My emotions are so not ready).**

**'Til later, Sherlockians **

**:)**


End file.
